The Demon Plagues

by David VanDyke

  Late in the evening he rolled into the outskirts of Geneva, pulling into the first European chain hotel he saw and checking in without difficulty. It had been a long day and he needed a good night’s sleep. The official address to the Neutral States assembly was scheduled for the day after tomorrow; he had that long to do recon, gather intel and equipment, and implement a plan.

  In a way he had surprised himself with his instant decision to get involved. Skull liked to think of himself as a cold, logical thinker, but in moments of self-reflection he accepted his own impulses. Logically he should stay away; if Markis died, so be it; but something inside him didn’t want that to happen. As much as he disliked what Markis had done and what he stood for, he hated the Unionists and their employment of Psychos far more. All Markis had done was act in accordance with his nature, openly and honestly; the Unionists had seized power illegally and had betrayed the true America, and that he could not forgive.

  The enemy of my enemy is my friend. There was nothing quite as satisfying as killing an enemy you could feel really good about hating. That thought put a smile on his face as he fell asleep.

  -12-

  Colonel Nguyen ordered everything useful taken off the still-attached mini-submersible, then set it to dive to the bottom and stay there on bare maintenance power. They marked its position for possible recovery. Now the hijacked Nebraska was clean and silent once again.

  Two days later they surfaced eighty miles off of Fiji, in a place where wind and current would carry the lifeboats to the island. The sullen crew loaded the rubber rafts with plenty of food and water, then got in.

  Major Muzik addressed them in a cheerful booming voice from the bridge at the top of the sail. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure hijacking your boat. Remember that you are all now Eden Plague carriers; I suggest you seek asylum when you make landfall if you don’t want to wait for your Unionist masters to send you to one of those concentration camps they claim don’t exist.” Followed by a few salty epithets, he gave a friendly wave, then climbed down the ladder and dogged the hatch shut before descending to the control room.

  A day later he found Bitzer sleeping in the helmsman’s seat. Colored screens with readouts comprehensible only to a submariner covered the bulkhead in front of him. Muzik hoped there was an autopilot. “What’s our status, Chief?” he asked, loud enough to wake Bitzer up.

  Bitzer didn’t open his eyes. “On course and doin’ fifteen knots quiet. This boat’s a beauty.”

  “How do you know if you aren’t looking at the gauges?”

  “Completely by feel, sor. It’s in me blood.”

  Muzik sighed as he backed up toward the door. “Why do I even ask? And what the hell am I doing on a submarine anyway,” he muttered to himself.

  “Keeping me awake, sor,” answered Bitzer, still without opening his eyes.

  “Maa-aa-aa,” Muzik bleated, sheeplike.

  Bitzer finally opened one eye and raised half a smile. “Glad to see you’re a fan, sor. Now would you mind, I’m meditating on the mandalas tattooed in me eyelids.”

  “Sometimes I miss the good old days.”

  “You mean the days of snap and pop and knuckle-me-head for officers?”

  “No. Flogging.”

  Bonnagh put his feet up on the console and laced his fingers behind his head, laughing. “Ah, yes, one of the three great traditions of the Royal Navy.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Which are?”

  “Rum, sodomy and the lash, me good major. Rum, sodomy and the lash.”

  Muzik choked off a laugh and moved on to the mess, the team’s gathering place. The others there glanced at him as he kept chuckling to himself.

  Everyone had breathed a sigh of relief after the crew was offloaded. Harres was up and around and running the power plant just fine now, though his shaved skull looked lumpy from the back. Kelley’s voice was a bit slurred from the loss of several upper teeth but otherwise he healed well; everything would grow back eventually. The boat ran smoothly for the next two days, a quiet routine of regular meals and careful work on cracking the Trident missiles and their codes.

  On the fifth day after taking the Nebraska, Alkina glided coldly into the mess, squaring off with Colonel Nguyen and Major Muzik. Gunnery Sergeant Repeth was away standing watch with Bonnagh in the control room; the three enlisted technicians were working on the warheads. In a flat voice, almost conversational, she said, “Colonel, I demand to know what’s going on. This boat is off course.”

  Disdaining her putative rank, Nguyen replied, “Miss Alkina, this boat is going exactly where I want it to go.”

  “It is supposed to be heading for a rendezvous with the Free Australian Navy, who will escort it into our sub base at Garden Island.”

  Colonel Nguyen sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. “If we were, we’d all be dead by now. Half the Pacific Fleet is between us and Australia looking for us.”

  Alkina’s upper lip twitched below her dead black eyes. “Colonel, I am getting tired of being cut out of the loop. Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

  Nguyen stood up, placing his hands flat on the table in front of him, leaning toward her. “What’s going on is as follows. There are leaks in the FC council. This operation was approved by the council. Several people outside the council also know about it, some of them in the Australian Government. Also, the UG Navy isn’t stupid. They just lost one of their ballistic missile subs, and they are going hell-for-leather looking for it here in the Pacific. They can track the movements of your navy on their overhead assets. So anywhere your navy seems to be going, anywhere they look like they are trying to escort us in, they will be a target and we will be highlighted. Don’t think they won’t use a nuke on us and anyone near us, just to make a statement.”

  Spooky leaned back, beginning to pace. “You should have known this could start a hot war. I imagine everyone is weapons-free up there and people might be dying in naval combat. And we have three, count them, three men aboard who know anything about running a submarine, in a vessel that normally takes one hundred and fifty. We can’t fight this boat. Our only chance is to get lost. To go somewhere where we won’t be found. And when it comes time to launch, we have to expect an immediate nuclear strike on our position, so every minute, every second we have will be precious.”

  Alkina’s clasped hands tightened behind her back, the only telltale of her emotion. “Launch. Launch what, to where? I thought the main point of taking this boat was to get missile and weapons technology, to help the anti-satellite program. To put our own satellites up. To gain a nuclear deterrent, if we could somehow make it credible by getting around the virtue effect.”

  “You’re trying to tell me Australia couldn’t have assembled nuclear weapons by now? And in any case you Aussies have already gotten around the virtue effect, haven’t you?”

  Allkina’s eyes glittered, and her face went still. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “How else do you explain Samoa?”

  “That was an accident. Somehow our fleet automated integrated missile system was activated and took action on its own.”

  “That’s the party line. It sure looked like a well-executed ambush to me. The UG lost almost an entire carrier strike group. Twenty thousand sailors and nineteen ships. You lost two. Whatever it was, it convinced them that the Australian navy was a dangerous opponent.”

  “It also convinced them to obliterate several Australian military bases.”

  “Yes, but that’s what prompted the Neutral States to extend their nuclear deterrent umbrella to the Free Communities. That was an enormous political victory for the Chairman and the FC.”

  “Colonel, I don’t want to depend on the good graces of others to protect me and my country, or the rest of the FC. Or on getting lucky.”

  “I’m counting on that. That’s why we are fleeing south, as far as we can get, into the Ross Sea just off Antarctica. That’s why our technicians are working on those missiles. And that’s why you are go
ing to help me launch them.”

  -13-

  After a surprisingly good hotel breakfast Skull bought a tote bag from the hotel gift shop to hold his cash. The spring day felt fresh and clean, and snowcapped peaks loomed nearby like benevolent Nordic godlings. Flowers sprouted from boxes in the windows of colorfully-painted historic buildings and modern shops alike, smells mingled with the aromas of coffee and baking bread and beer from last night’s revelry.

  He walked to Geneva’s Centrum, toward the Parc des Bastions along the French-named streets – this was the historically Francophone section of the country – the Rue de Lombard, the Boulevarde de Philosophes, the Boulevard de Georges-Favon. His first stop was at a Bank of Geneva branch to exchange dollars for Swiss francs. Next he went to an electronics shop and bought an airweight computer and a local prepaid smart phone with an extra simcard and a few other items. In Europe, one could easily swap simcards, creating in effect an entirely new phone with a different number.

  Inquiring after the location of a camera-and-optical shop, he walked a few blocks to that place. There he bought an excellent Japanese camcorder with the best zoom he could get, some very fine Zeiss binoculars, and a suite of accessories including batteries, tripods for both, cleaning solution and cloths.

  He also bought two rifle sights: one high-quality optical day sight and one night sight. These purchases excited no comment whatsoever; sportsmen and target shooters, police and military from all over the world routinely bought Swiss optics for their weapons.

  From a bakery around the corner he also purchased a bag full of incredible pastries and a large cup of fresh-made coffee to go, munching and sipping as he walked. Tourists were common, and he deliberately fit the mold with his half-filled backpack and shopping bags. There was nothing as forgettable as another tourist in Switzerland.

  He crossed the Rhone River that fed Lake Geneva, here tame and full of boat traffic passing up and down for commerce or leisure. Catching a train for a couple of miles to complete his journey he disembarked at Les Tuileries station near the northeast end of Geneva Airport.

  It had only one runway, and generally aircraft took off and landed over the northeast end, using the lake for their final approach or initial departure. According to the map on his phone, there was also a considerable swath of forest, farm fields and parkland curving from the end of the runway north and westward along the edge of the airport proper. Walking along using the GPS function to track his progress, he found his way to a position on the edge of the forest there, the Bois de Foretaille. There he settled himself with his back against a tree, eating pastries, drinking coffee, and looking through his binoculars at many interesting things as the jets flew low over his head.

  He made some cryptic notations in his phone, and then began to walk again. Methodically he partially circumnavigated the airport counterclockwise, first north then westward, examining the terrain, tapping the touchscreen from time to time. By the early mountain sundown he had found out what he needed to know.

  He caught a taxi back to the hotel, a concession to his nearly half-century old body that, while fit, knew more aches and pains each year. That didn’t matter; every day for the last ten years had risked his death, tempted his death, cheated his death for his cause.

  He ate dinner in the hotel restaurant and took a nap; his body was confused by the jet lag, but the alarm on the phone woke him up on time to make the call.

  “Allo.”

  “I’m looking for my brother. He said to speak to you about a trombone.”

  “Oui. Come to 14 Rue Descartes at twenty-two.”

  “Oui, d’accord.” Skull hung up. Ten o’clock – ‘twenty-two’ on the usual European twenty-four-hour clock, 2200 hours in military time – was an hour away. He spent it walking the chill Geneva streets, looking at the clear, bright stars with genuine pleasure. In Mexico City he seldom saw the night sky for the smog.

  At precisely ten according to his Patek – thankfully on his wrist in this safe city – he knocked at the door of 14 Rue Descartes. It was an old door on an old street but impeccably maintained and painted, and it opened immediately without sticking or squeaking. A man of about seventy waved him in, looking at him over spectacles clipped to his nose – pince-nez, he remembered they were called.

  “My brother said you might have a trombone for me?”

  “Oui. You have money?”

  “Of course. North American dollars. Okay?”

  “Oui, pas de problem. We have some excellent banks here in La Suisse. You may have heard of them.” The man’s eyes sparkled with good cheer as he led the way down a flight of narrow stairs into a basement.

  Skull laughed in spite of himself. It was good to visit a place where life wasn’t grim and full of fearful citizenry. “You do have an excellent reputation.”

  “Bien sur, what else has a man but his reputation? And mine is superb.” He opened a modern steel door that went through to a short tunnel lined with white-painted brick. The door at the other end opened into a machine shop; lathes and presses and less identifiable machinery dotted the large floor. Stacks of pipes, sheet metal, and machined parts were stored neatly on shelves. The old man nodded to a middle-aged technician who was carefully tending the edge of a piece of steel with a fine wire brush as they crossed the floor to a large, immobile-seeming steel cabinet.

  “Turn around, please.”

  Skull did so, and when he was told to turn back, the thing had been silently swung aside like a door, revealing another workshop behind.

  Inside he saw more machine tools, but these were specific to the armorer’s art. Gunsmithing was an ancient tradition here; the Swiss were among the best weapon-makers in the world. Long guns lined the walls on pegs, but no handguns. Owning a rifle here was completely normal and expected; handguns were tightly controlled.

  “What kind of weapon would you like?” the man asked.

  “First, untraceable. I may have to abandon it after use. Second, something in 7.62, that can take these sights I will leave with you, something very precise and accurate, nothing old and worn out. It is for distance work.”

  “It will be expensive.”

  “I have enough money.”

  “I have no ammunition. It is too dangerous to deal in ammunition. I can tell you a place to go but you must not tell them of me.”

  Skull waved the offer aside. “I have match-grade ammunition with me. I need you to scan all the cartridges and choose the best ones, then select the weapon based on this ammunition. Tune up the gun. Crown and lead-lap the barrel. Lighten the hammer. Set the trigger pull to three pounds, and fit an angle cosine indicator and a bipod.”

  “Yes, yes, I can do this. Do you have the optics to boresight??”

  “Yes, right here. How long will it take?”

  “A day only.”

  Skull chewed the inside of his cheek in thought. “Bon. Here is my number.”

  “Thank you. I expect your gun will be a SIG SG 510. I have several; one of them will do I am sure. A superb weapon, if a bit dated.”

  “Bon. I like, old reliable things. I also need a concealment case.”

  “Yes, for the trombone. No problem. And I must ask for the money in advance.”

  “Of course. How much?”

  The old man spoke a number, and Skull nodded, counting out considerable stacks of cash, well into high five figures. He left quite happy to have paid the fee. A workman is worthy of his wages. Every shot would have to tell if he was to achieve his goal and again live to fight another day.

  -14-

  Chairman Markis saw the UG delegation enter the opposite antechamber and the Swiss Foreign Minister nodded from inside the main room. That worthy had already made his greetings, and to avoid any indication of favoritism he now presided at the end of the long table. The two opposing – negotiating – parties would sit across the long axis from each other, bringing them face to face.

  Markis strode in confidently, timing his pace to get him to his chair at preci
sely the same moment as the Canadian Prime Minister. Millicent took her place to his right; Security Chief Rogett, though disarmed of all his deadly tools, filled the space to his left like a knight’s shieldbearer of old.

  Prime Minister Portmanteaux was a florid man of about forty, short and red-faced with sandy brown hair, a cheerful smile and beady eyes. He combined the nonthreatening, easygoing manner of the British-descended Canadians with the smooth elegance of the Quebecois nobility. He held out a gloved hand for Markis to shake.

  Even this was a concession for the Plague-phobic UGNA, a measure of trust and confidence. Markis shook hands with the man, exerting a carefully measured pressure, then dropping it casually. He had no intention of covertly infecting Portmanteaux even if he could; such an action would destroy any chance of trust this meeting was meant to build. Besides, the man's glove was certainly loaded with antivirals, as was the man’s bloodstream.

  “Mister Prime Minister, I thank you for meeting me on such short notice and with such evident good will. I hope that we can improve relations among all of our nations.”

  “Well said, M’sieur Chairman. Shall we sit?”

  Both parties took their seats. Millicent and the Canadian’s two staffers all took out computers and prepared to take notes.

  “Now, since you requested this meeting, and it is informal, perhaps you can explain why, and what it is you hope to accomplish.” The man’s accent was nasal but cultured, his English precise. Markis could smell his cologne, expensive and French, and suppressed an urge to sneeze.

  “Generally, I would like to improve relations and reduce the still-continuing bloodshed on both sides. More specifically, with incidents like the latest strike on Kinshasa we will never be able to create a climate of peace and allow the world to recover from the chaos of the last decade.”